


things to bother believing in

by tboi



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tboi/pseuds/tboi
Summary: Let us have this,they think.An insignificant moment in a significant world. Just one.





	things to bother believing in

**Author's Note:**

> so...shadowbringers, huh !
> 
> spoilers for all of msq pretty much. im on twitter @neroscaeva, have yet to write for this fandom because i find the wol hard to pin down so i hope this is ok. let me know!

The Tower feels like his own personal prison cell, sometimes.

Albeit a spacious one - the corridors of the Crystal Tower wind in ways that seem illogical, stairs crossing under and over each other, the glass the same dazzling blue all the way through. Rooms upon rooms litter the place, some more used than others - the Exarch winces every time he enters the small room he classifies not quite as a  _ bedroom  _ but more a  _ living space,  _ generally. He often has to wade through piles of books and paper to reach anything he might need in there.

The tower is affixed to him, for better or for worse - it has made that very clear, imposing itself on his body, crystallising his arm, parts of his legs, his neck, a sliver of crystal on his face like a badly healed scar. It is as much a part of him as the shock of white through his hair, as the two ruby red eyes that stare back at him any time he feels brave enough to look in a mirror.

So, the Tower. And the Exarch. Pulling from each other, giving and taking - leaving the Tower for too long leaves him faint and breathless, like peeling off a scab just as it has begun to heal, sometimes just to watch it bleed. He seldom talks about it - he is a man of mystery, of course, though the general population probably assumes there is  _ some  _ kind of deeper meaning to the Exarch’s lack of field work outside the fact that he is The Hermit in a deck of cards - but when he collapses in front of the Warrior of Darkness (of  _ Light _ ), there is hardly any point in continuing to hide this behind his teeth.

“Forgive me. I will be fine, I simply need to sit for a moment,” he says, winded, his back to a large mossy rock, “I cannot be away from the Tower for too long, or I…”

“I noticed,” the Warrior tells him, leans down to perch in front of him on the balls of their feet. “Your excursions away are rare, and fleeting when they do happen. I just kind of...figured,” they tell him with a shrug.

“Observant,” he says with a soft smile that quickly fades. “I wish it was not like this. I would like to-“ he cuts himself short, tongue burdened with multitudes of unspoken thoughts.  _ Like to see the world for more than a day at a time. Like to travel, like to meet new people, like to rid myself of this robe and this title for a little while. Like to see it with you, with you- _

“To?” they ask, raising their eyebrows. The Exarch sighs and tries to collect his bearings.

“What will you do when this is done?” he asks instead of answering their question. The final Lightwarden toils in the ever-bright sky above their heads, ready to be struck down finally,  _ finally. _

(His final day approaches. He tries not to focus on the poisonous amounts of light that threaten to crack open the Warrior’s soul.)

“Hm,” they hum in answer, moving to sit down properly now that they’re sure he isn’t going to faint on them. They give him a sly smile. “What are  _ you  _ going to do?” He supposes he owes them an answer for this one, due to the earlier sidestepping. He exhales.

“I should like to see the world,” he says, idealistic. “There is someone I wish to see it with, to journey to every new corner of the once broken First with after the night returns,” he is glad his eyes are obstructed under the hood of the robe, knows they are piercing in their colour, “wishful thinking, however,” he continues. “I cannot leave the Tower for long enough, and I do not know if they would have me.”

“I would,” the Warrior blurts out, like it’s important that he  _ knows.  _ “If- I mean, that’s what you meant.”

“Ah,” the Exarch says, a noise of realisation. Puzzle pieces slotting together, a long lost lover coming home. “That- I was referring to you, yes,” he clarifies. “Obviously.” He clears his throat.

“Well,” they say, reaching for the hand the Tower had not claimed as its own, “once this is all over, maybe we…” they trail off, looking lost. A thousand years of hurt flash in their eyes, a thousand years of loss and love gone by, too much pain for someone so young.

“I was just thinking out loud,” the Exarch says, making no move to remove his hand from their grasp. “But, come the time, maybe we could…” he tries not to think about how the time will not,  _ can not  _ come, not if he is to expunge the perilous amount of Light they are carrying, a burden cracking them open from the inside.

He lets himself indulge - just once, just  _ once.  _ He is selfish, selfish, selfish for it, he knows - wants to lock his feelings up under his tongue like he has been doing for nigh on a century, wants to take it back. Years of solitude have chipped away at him, a stone exposed to high tide. 

“Make no promises,” the Warrior says, soul so much older than the years their body carries scars from, “but it is a nice thought.”

“Of course,” he says. “But not a pressing matter, nor one at all, really. Come,” he pulls them up with their hands still entwined, fingers interlocked. 

_ Let us have this,  _ they think.  _ An insignificant moment in a significant world. Just one. _

“Do you need me to come back to the Tower with you?” they ask.

“No,” not  _ need, _ he thinks, “but thank you for the offer.” The Warrior shrugs, finally dropping their hand from his own. 

“I should go back, then,” they gesture towards the ladder in the near distance. “If you’re sure you…?”

“I am fine,” he reassures them, feels like he should say more. He doesn’t. “Do not worry, my friend. The finish line is in sight.”

“Of course,” they nod, cocky smile on their face. “I owe you a drink, after all of this.”

Later, later, later, the Exarch will come to in the Void, Emet-Selch craned over him, and think of another life, another time. One not beset by this tragedy, one where maybe,  _ maybe. _

_ Wishful thinking,  _ he will think of a hand in his own,  _ as always. _


End file.
